


Sherlock Is Not Dead

by SprinkledOutAngst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SprinkledOutAngst/pseuds/SprinkledOutAngst
Summary: A journal which he wrote every way a human could easily die. So far John had survived everything he had wrote down. Drugs, car accidents, failed muggings, and anything he found remotely dangerous. John was living.Sherlock couldn't have died.. . . - - - . . .Trigger warnings: Suicidal Idealization and Suicide attempt. Please use caution and take care of yourself.
Relationships: John Watson and Grief, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes - Relationship, John Watson/Mary Morstan (Brief)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Sherlock Is Not Dead

John Watson went to work on a Friday. 

Sherlock is dead.

He woke up and went to work Saturday and hit the pub afterwards. 

Sherlock is dead. 

Greg Lestrade stopped by Sunday but John turned him away. 

Sherlock is dead. 

John went to work Monday. 

Sherlock isn’t dead. 

John didn’t know when he started telling himself that. His therapist would sit back and write down the word  _ denial  _ in soft scribbles. He stopped seeing her after that. Sherlock was smart and clever and amazing. Someone like him couldn’t be dead. He knew what this was. Another amazing and smart trick he pulled. John knew Sherlock would do something like this. This...this.. Fake death was absolutely astonishing. John was tricked into a lab with an imaginary crazy hound. If Sherlock could do that thinking John was going to be in trouble then he absolutely knew Sherlock could fake his death. 

John walked into the kitchen and poured two cups of tea. In case this was the day that Sherlock would pop up and say, “Of course I wasn’t dead, John. I thought you of all people would know that.” And John would be miffed but then burst into laughter at Sherlock’s lack of human apathy. 

_ Goodbye John.  _

That isn’t a goodbye, thought John bitterly, that was just him hinting. John coughed and sat down in his chair after setting the tea across from him on the table beside Sherlock’s chair. He sipped softly on his tea in the quiet of his flat. After Sherlock’s fake funeral Mrs.Hudson asked if John would be moving now that Sherlock was gone. John couldn’t leave now if Sherlock was coming back. 

Four months passed and John finally stopped making two cups of tea. Instead, he figured if- no not if- when Sherlock came back he could just make one. Instead, John figured he would start testing his hypothesis. Sherlock considered himself a scientist. John thought back to his boring highschool lessons and was pleased to see that he remembered the Scientific Method. 

Step one, ask a question. Is Sherlock dead? John rolled his eyes at this one. 

Step two, research. Sherlock went through every inch of the flat looking for everything he could find. Sherlock wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead. He even looked up this silly fan group that had several theories that Sherlock wasn’t dead. Some were completely outrageous, especially the one about Sherlock and Moriatory’s secret love story. 

Step three, propose a hypothesis. Sherlock is not dead. Simple enough. One sentence just straight to the point. 

Step four, experimenting. John came a little stumped with this. How could he even go about with these experiments? He didn’t have Sherlock right with him to test anything, to ask anything, to gather data. He pondered this all of his day off, researching on his laptop, making dinner. He was just ready to turn to bed when the most brilliant idea popped into his head. It was daring and new and absolutely downright crazy. He knew Sherlock would jump in the air at the idea, shouting the word brilliant. 

John chased away the painful memory and devised a plan. He fell asleep for the first time in forever with hopefulness. 

The next morning John went to the store and bought a simple leather back notebook. He needed to record his experiments. He had one just like it for science class back in the day. Then he made his way down to Scotland Yard. He popped in and met with Sally Donnovan. 

“John Watson?” She asked, looking rather confused. “What are you doing?” 

“Ah hello.” John nodded looking a little out of place. He hasn’t been back there since Sherlock's fake death. “I need to speak with Detective Lastrade?” 

“We didn’t call you for a case.. We erm, don’t need you.” She said frowning. Sally looked very irritated. In turn this made John irritated. “Plus, he’s out of town. Taken a holiday since.. Since the freak died.” 

Sally’s eyes widened when John slammed his hand on the desk. His cheeks heated with the swell of rage that rose. He opened his mouth to say something, to yell, to do something. Instead he turned around and left the building and slammed the door shut. He left Sally standing there shocked to her core at the suddenness of John’s departure. 

John was fuming all the way back to his flat. He moved to cross the street when suddenly he heard a loud screech and a horn. Blinded by his rage he almost got run over. He stared cooly at the driver as they honked again for John to keep moving. He raced across the street and to his flat. 

He got inside his flat and sat in his chair. Pulling out his brand new journal he scribbled down  _ Car accident  _ before shutting the book. He didn’t die today. Further evidence that Sherlock couldn’t be dead. The man was just brilliant, smart and kind and good for death. He coughed and looked around the flat. Maybe he’d take up smoking? No, that was too slow. Sherlock had smoked for years and it didn’t kill him. No, he’d need something stronger. John stopped what he was doing and smiled. He knew exactly what he was going to do. 

The next day John called in sick to work and wandered the streets with a pocket full of change. He came up on a familiar building he found once. He smiled softly and entered in. He wasn’t surprised to still see the piles of the homeless, the drug addicts, and a few others laying on mats on the floor. John found the first one and waved money in their face. After getting what he wanted he left the flat feeling a lot happier. John was smiling all the way to his flat. 

He held the bag of powder between his fingers and held it up to the light. He bounced it a little bit and then marched to the kitchen table. He grabbed a piece of paper and spilled the contents on the bag. All of it. He was a doctor but he wasn’t sure if this was enough to really do anything. But right now John was a scientist. He grabbed a straw from the table and leaned down and sniffed all the contents up. It burned at first and then he felt nothing but sweet bliss. 

John was floating through the flat for hours and hours. His head held high until he passed out on the stairs up to his bedroom. 

“John?”

That was Sherlock’s voice. There wasn’t any mistake that it wasn’t. He opened his eyes still feeling very dizzy. He coughed and rose up on his elbows. Everywhere hurt. He suddenly remembered what woke him up and he jumped down the stairs eagerly. Did Sherlock come back? Was he done playing this stupid game? 

The flat was empty. John came to the conclusion he imagined it while high. He sat in his chair after calling in sick again. He reached underneath the chair and dragged out his notebook and wrote the word  _ Drugs  _ underneath the words car accident. John pondered on new things that could put him in harm's way. 

Online people tend to be dangerous, he thought, as he pulled out his phone. He downloaded three apps. They were dating apps. He put his address in the bio of all his Bio’s with a dark grin. He hummed and began to look up the most shady of people. He got over a 100 requests to meet up. 

He arranged a meeting with a pretty girl tomorrow at 9PM. He got up and went to bed. 

28 people. 5 unprotected sex, and one strange lady. He wasn’t dead yet and John didn’t have a STD. He scribbled down the latest results in his journal and stashed it away under the chair. His phone dinged but he ignored it. John went out again that night and bought another bag of drugs. They all varied in type and color and use, but John figured he didn’t care. He wondered briefly if he would hear Sherlock say his name again like last time. John only went to work to steal a whole bag of needles before he pulled some PTO days. 

He had plenty of those saved up. 

John was blissfully high every night until then. Each time he was asleep longer and longer and he knew he was getting sicker. John felt like he was wasting away but at the same time he really felt alive! John made tally marks beside the word Drugs over and over as he tried more and more. 

That wasn’t enough though. John knew drug addicts that survived years and years on this stuff and never slipped up. John needed to get clever. Clever like Sherlock. So, he decided to spend the night walking around the city of London. He carried with him his phone and earbuds as he blissfully walked around at night. He rounded the corner when he came face to face with two men. 

“Eh, get a load of this one?” The one on the left said. “Looks high off his bonkers.” He chuckled. 

They advanced on John and before he knew it they had him pressed up against a wall. 

“Give us everything you got.” One snarled in his face. 

John resisted the urge to laugh. Mugging. At least it was something. 

“No.” John said standing a little taller. This only made them angry though. John gasped as he felt a knee fall into his ribs. His vision blurred when they punched him in the face. He fell on his side and they kicked again. 

“What’s going on down there?” Yelled a strangely familiar voice. John groaned in pain and rolled onto his side to protect his head. 

Was that Sherlock? He wondered briefly. It was like Sherlock to turn up at odd situations such as this. 

The two men shouted something that was lost and scattered. John huffed and felt a pair of arms pull him into a sitting position. 

“John? John? What are you doing?” 

“Sherlock…?” He murmured before passing out. 

John woke up in a hospital bed alone. He looked around slightly panicked. He winced at a sharp pain in his side. His room opened and Gred Lastrade walked in. He looked down at John, his mouth stuck in a thin frown. 

“What were you doing, John? Out at night, alone, high?!” He shouted, getting angry. 

John frowned looking up at him. “I don’t need lecturing. You can get me out early?” He said sitting up and hiding the pain in his side. This seemed to be the wrong thing to say though because Greg erupted. 

“You trying to get yourself killed? What would Sherlock say? This isn’t the bloody way to deal with his death!” 

“Sherlock is not dead!” John howled and jumped to his feet. He ignored the pain as he snarled at Greg. 

“You’re nuts.” Greg said softly, staring at him. 

John, deciding he didn’t need this, he pushed past Greg and left the hospital. Of course they had to bring him here… The place where Sherlock faked his death. He huffed and stared at the spot where the blood was scrubbed away. He curled his lip at it and left. 

A month passed since this event and Greg had turned up to the flat two times trying to apologize to John. He didn’t have any of it though. John spent his time adding more words to his journal. He completed a page and a half of all the ways that a person could come close to dying and survive. 

John was surviving. Sherlock had to survive. 

John, despite deciding against it at first, took up smoking. He realized why Sherlock liked it so much. It took his mind away from all the thoughts that swarmed around in his head. The anger that burned whenever John was giving up that maybe Sherlock really was dead. Maybe it was all denial like his therapist said. He threw away those thoughts quickly. He couldn’t give up just yet!

He was so close to a breakthrough. John could feel it in his wary bones. John got beat up several times before he gave up that no one would really be inclined to kill him. Why would something kill Sherlock then? He was so much smarter and clever than John. It was crazy. 

_ Please would you do this for me?  _

John froze in the middle of what he was doing. Tea. He had to breathe and remind himself what he was doing. He couldn’t think about that day just yet. It was far too painful. 

John had a date. He met up with her in a cafe and listened to her drone on and on about her daily life. She stopped when she noticed he wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. 

Mary Mortson. 

She was a pretty girl with blonde hair and green eyes. 

“I know who you are, John.” She said getting his attention. 

“Hm?” John lifted his head slightly. 

“Weren’t you with that hat detective? Sherlock Holmes? Brilliant lad that one was.” She said softly sipping from her cup of coffee. John stared at her for a moment. Normally John felt rage rise when anyone spoke about Sherlock, but not her. No she didn’t say his name like it was a curse. Like John would fall apart at any moment. 

“He isn’t dead.” John blurted out without even thinking. Marry nodded slowly, raising a brow. “He faked it.” John didn’t see the pity in her eyes and he counted this as a win. Because this woman didn’t think he was crazy, or run away screaming, he let it all out. The months that grew and the rising anger and sadness and the experiments and the journal. He told her everything. 

“Ah, so you figure if you can come close to death and survive then Sherlock could survive?” She asked, seeming generally curious. 

“Yes!” John said leaning back in his chair. He stopped and looked at her. “Why aren’t you saying stop? Saying this is dangerous?” 

“You wouldn’t listen to your friend Lestrade what makes me think you’d listen to me yeah?” Mary said softly after a moment's pause. “Although I think it’s a little wasteful.” 

“Wasteful?” 

“What’s trying to kill yourself going to do about bringing Sherlock back… If he is actually alive that is.” 

“I’m not.. I’m not trying to kill myself.” John protested. “I’m just..” 

“You are, John. You’re putting yourself in harm's way.” Mary reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “Be careful. If you die then Sherlock won’t have anyone to return to.” 

John jerked his hand back stiffly. He chewed on his lip and looked away. A waiter came over and gave them a bill. 

“I bet this is the craziest date you’ve been on, huh?” John asked as he walked her out onto the street. 

“You’d be surprised.” Mary smiled and looked over at John after waving for a taxi. 

“I’m not getting a kiss?” John asked jokingly. Mary laughed and kissed his cheek and was off. John watched after her and crossed his arms. She was right, killing himself wouldn’t bring back Sherlock. 

John did three lines of cocaine. 

Sherlock is dead. 

John called his work and quit. 

Sherlock is dead. 

John ended up in the hospital again because he “accidentally” walked in front of a car. 

Sherlock is dead. 

John got out and bought a police scanner. Lestrade said if he caught John around another crime he’d lock him up. 

Sherlock is dead. 

John was tired of repeating it over and over and over. It was a mantra. Even though he knew Sherlock was dead and wasn’t coming back, he still wrote all the dumb ways to die in his journal. John was getting more reckless. He forgot to eat most days until he could barely contain the hunger pains. Lestrade, Molly, and even Mrs.Hudson would visit the flat and John would send them away or tell them he was on his way out. They never believed him but no amount of begging would get John to listen to them. 

Sherlock is dead. 

John stepped out onto the street and saw a black car sitting outside the flat. Leaned against it was a pretty brownett looking down at her phone. “Get in.” She said to John. 

Mycroft. 

John got into the car without much of a fuss. He sat back and looked out the window and rubbed a hand through his hair. They drove in silence to Mycroft. John walked into that building seething. Mycroft was sitting at his desk looking up at John with an expectant smile. 

“Come John, sit.” 

John sat down in the large and very uncomfortable chair. He remained silent staring across the table at Mycroft. 

“I got to say, John. This recklessness is very foolish of you.” Mycroft was watching John and crossing his arms. “I’m surprised you haven’t ended up in a mental hospital.” He said softly. 

“I am not crazy.” John snapped, the harshness rising in his voice. 

“I remember calling you the day Miss Addler died and telling you to watch my brother for a relapse.” He leaned forward ignoring his words. “What would he say now if he saw how blown out your eyes are. How much weight have you lost?” 

“This isn’t any of your business, Mycroft.” John was hissing again. 

Mycroft reached into his drawer and pulled out a journal and slammed it on the table. His journal. 

“I can’t believe you raided my flat.” John stood up hearing the chair screech back behind him. He reached for the journal but Mycroft yanked it back and opened it. He looked down and read off a few. 

“Drugs. Unprotected sex. Car accidents, ah this has about the same marks as drugs. Smoking.” He went on and on and John sunk down into his chair shaking with rage. 

“You have.. No right.” He snapped leaning forward. “None.” 

Mycroft closed the book with a soft  _ snap  _ and he put it on the desk. “The only reason you aren’t being stripped of your rights and placed in a hospital is because my brother considers you a friend.” He leaned back. “Stop this foolishness John. Now.”

John glared at him, but then he stopped. “Considers?” He whispered under his breath. He saw something cross across Mycroft’s face but he couldn’t tell. Everyone John knew talked about Sherlock in past tense. 

Mycroft knew something. 

“Now John, think wisely before you speak.” Mycroft stood up and straightened his tie. 

“He isn’t dead.” John also stood up. “Everyone talks about him in the past tense. You- you said Considers.” John backed up breaking out into a large grin. 

Mycroft stared at him with a deep disapproving look. “My brother is dead.” He snapped. “Forgive me, John Watson, if I am also struggling with the fact that he is dead.” 

John froze and looked at him. Hope was dwindling and he leaned down. He huffed and bit his lip, looking down. “Sorry.” He mumbled. John didn’t wait for Mycroft to say anything else. He turned on his heel and left Mycroft and his journal in the office. He left the building and walked all the way to his flat. His chest was hurting so bad he felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

He pushed the door open, avoiding Mrs.Hudson calling his name. He entered his flat and locked the door. John pulled his cupboard open and grabbed the drugs and placed them on the counter. He then proceeded to get completely shit faced. 

He stumbled around the flat until 3 AM. John was digging in his drawer by his bed and fishing out his gun. He could survive it probably, he thought bitterly and aimed at the yellow painted smiling face and fired. Once, twice, three times. He didn’t care much for the noise it made. Surely it would have woken up Mrs.Hudson, or anyone for that matter. He gave it four minutes before the police would arrive. 

Two minutes passed as he stood there aiming at the yellow smiley face. Mrs.Hudson was beating her fist on the door and yelling John’s name. John heard her talking to someone else, probably the police. John glanced down at the gun. 

He pointed it at himself. The cold metal pressing into his temple. He shivered like it had frozen his entire body up. He breathed in, out, in, out. Mrs.Hudson was still beating against the door and yelling out John's name. She sounded desperate and frightened. 

John ignored her. 

The room was dark but soon it was lit up by flashing blue and white. The police had arrived. Too late, John thought bitterly. He heard a commotion in the hallway. More yelling and banging on the door. 

“Stand back.” He heard someone yell. 

John pulled the trigger. 

_ Click, click, click.  _

John was tackled to the ground and the gun was wrestled from his grip. John didn’t really have the strength to fight anyways. His entire body had gone numb and cold. Was he dead? He thought and closed his eyes. Someone was yelling in his ears and there were more people crowding into his flat. 

“I don’t care.” John slurred when someone offered to help him up. He slapped their hands away. 

“Oh John..” Cried Mrs.Hudson and she left the room dotting her eyes. 

John stood up, stumbling a little. Everything was fuzzy and crazy. Greg Lastrade was there staring at John worriedly. He held John’s gun and emptied the clip. 

“You’re lucky this was already empty.” Greg said, glaring at the gun. 

“Nah. Not lucky am I huh?” He hissed. “Just bloody dumb.” He mumbled sitting in the chair. “Fuckin tired.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You fuckin.. Dumb.” He pointed at somewhere in the hall. 

He could see Sherlock standing there staring at him.  _ You should have known you fired the remaining bullets into the wall. Silly mistake John.  _

“Not like you’re any help.” He yelled and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Sherlock right now. He was very angry. 

Greg was staring down at him. “He’s high.” He said softly and grabbed John by the shoulder. “Get the stretcher up here and get him off to the hospital.” He said softly. 

John frowned, pulling back and away from Greg. “Don’t need some stupid hospital.” He snapped. “Get out of here.” He huffed. 

“I can’t John. This is serious now.” Greg said softly. “Please come quietly.” 

_ Go quietly,  _ he heard Sherlock’s voice whispering in his head. 

John spent three weeks in the hospital. He didn’t feel all that different really. Everyday he saw a therapist and then a psychologist. They wrote him Prozac for the depression. 

The worst part was the withdrawals. He spent the first night in detox throwing up his guts and shaking. The second night he was a shivering mess and running a fever. All he wanted was something, some drugs, anything. He felt sick and weak in the knees. He hasn't heard or seen Sherlock since the night of his near suicide. 

Doctors checked on him several times. They all had a tight lipped smile when they spoke to him.  _ “Hi John, how are you?” “John, feeling any better?” “John, you’re safe here.” “John you can trust us.”  _

John’s least favorite part about it all was probably the pity. It leaked off the walls and suffocated him. He was constantly asked questions about how he was feeling or how he was doing today. It nearly drove him crazy. 

The first week passed and halfway through the second week a nurse walked down the hallway. She was jumpy and jittery. “You have a visitor John. Come on now.” John didn’t say anything and stood up. He walked down the corridor in his non-slip socks. 

“John you idiot.” He heard a very familiar voice. He froze mid step and looked up. Sherlock stood there behind the glass room. He was standing and looking through the glass at John. His eyes staring down at him and frowning. John didn’t see pity like everyone else. 

“Sherlock?” He whispered and entered the room. It was empty besides him and Sherlock. The nurse shut the door and frowned. “Is it really you?” 

“Yes John. Not dead.” Sherlock watched John with that slow calculating look. John took a step forward and touched Sherlock’s face. He felt cool solid skin. The man before him was real. He was actually real. 

“I knew it.” John said softly. He felt a sharp burning behind his eyes. John knew if he looked anywhere but Sherlock’s face he would cry. 

“You weren’t supposed to know, John.” Sherlock said softly and put his hand awkwardly on John’s shoulder. “Mycroft contacted me.” 

“Mycroft knew?” John stumbled back like he was slapped. 

Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out a journal. John’s journal. “It was never supposed to be like this.” Sherlock whispered and looked at the notebook. 

“You read it?”

“No, John. For once I didn’t snoop where I shouldn’t have. Though I know what I would find if I did read it.” Sherlock handed John the journal. 

John grabbed it and opened it up. He saw his scribbled handwriting smearing the whole page. 

“Why?” John whispered looking up at Sherlock. 

“I knew you would be very disappointed in me if you caught me reading-”   
  
“I didn’t mean why you didn’t read my journal!” John yelled. “Why did you fake your death Sherlock?” 

A nurse peeked their head into the room and looked at them with concern. She left seeing everything was okay. 

“You were in danger.” He said frowning. “Everyone was. Most importantly you. Snipers. Moriarty hired them and there was nothing I could do.” 

“You couldn’t… you could’ve asked me.” John snapped. “I could have helped.” 

Sherlock nodded once. “No. You couldn’t have done anything John. The sniper was aiming right at you outside the building. If I hadn’t jumped then he would have shot you and killed you. Then a message would be relayed through everyone else and Mrs.Hudson, Molly, Greg, Mycroft, everyone dear to me would be dead.” 

“Sherlock, you’re dear to me. Did you not stop and think what your death did to me? That’s why I’m in this bloody hospital!” He shouted again. His rage was building again. All those months doubling over his chest and he was getting closer to Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood there staring down at John sadly. “I am so sorry, John.” He stood there not moving a muscle. John launched himself across the room at Sherlock in blind rage. His eyes were burning and he was throwing several punches.

Nurses rushed in and pulled John off of Sherlock and out of the room. Sherlock stood up and wiped his face and frowned. He hissed and wiped at his nose and watched the nurses drag John away. 

“I really am sorry, John.” Sherlock whispered and sat down. 

It took Mycroft demanding Sherlock to be let back into the hospital to see John again. John rounded the corner and entered the glass room with Sherlock. He sat down and they both sat in silence for two hours only to repeat it the next day. John didn’t really have anything to say to Sherlock. All John had was time, time, and more time. There wasn’t much to do in the hospital except watch TV and group therapy. However, John was able to gather his thoughts and feelings about Sherlock being alive. Using the days and all the time he had to his advantage. He was sighing softly and crossing his arms. 

It was absolutely depressing.

“Sherlock?” 

“John?” He said softly.

“I’m really angry.” 

“I know.” Sherlock responded and crossed his legs. 

“I don’t think I’m that angry at you.” John closed his eyes. “I’m just so angry. I think it’s at myself.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and for the rest of visitation they sat like that. 

John Watson got out on a Tuesday afternoon. Sherlock was there and offered if he wanted to go to 221B Baker Street. If Sherlock was allowed back. John didn’t say anything but let Sherlock take him. 

They took a taxi and arrived at the flat in silence. John had his bag in his hand and walked into the room. He looked around and saw that Sherlock had cleaned up which was most unusual of him. John walked up to his room and put his stuff on his bed. He walked back downstairs. He noticed almost everything sharp in the room was gone. Ah so that’s why Sherlock cleaned, John thought bitterly. Sucide watch was still on. 

Mrs.Hudson walked into the room and she smiled. “Oh John, you’re home.” She pulled him into a hug. John smiled awkwardly as she patted his back. “You gave me such a fright. Please don’t ever do that to me again.” She pulled back her hands on his shoulder. 

“I’ll try.” He muttered and looked away. Sherlock entered the room and stood in the doorway. He watched them quietly and then suggested to Mrs.Hudson for some tea. 

“Oh yes. Cuppa anyone?” She walked into the kitchen and mulled about. John sat down in his chair and leaned back. 

“Sherlock, are you going to stay here?” He said softly. 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock sat down across from him. 

“I just figured.” John shrugged, unable to talk. 

“Silly of you to think that I would pack my things and leave. Death wouldn’t stop me from leaving 221B Baker Street.” 

“It stopped you for almost two years.” John whispered and closed his eyes. He felt very exhausted. 

“I’m back now, John. That shouldn’t stop me. That is if it is okay.” Sherlock sat there awkwardly. “If I stay?” 

John looked hard at Sherlock. Would it really be okay if he stayed? John thought about all the grief and the things he did since the day that Sherlock almost died. He shivered and coughed once, twice, and sat up straighter. Mrs.Hudson handed him a cup of tea and he took a small sip. John looked across at Sherlock and took in the sight of him. He was pale and he looked the same as he did all those months ago. John sank in his seat thinking. 

He knew that if he asked Sherlock to leave then Sherlock would leave. He saw the hopefulness in Sherlock’s eyes dwindle the longer it took him to answer. John scratched his chin where a light stubble was growing. He glanced at the staircase where he knew his journal was stashed into his stuff on his bed. A dread filled his gut when he thought about adding anything new to the journal. 

“Stay.” John said softly. 

He was tired. John didn’t want to put Sherlock through what he went through. John needed Sherlock if he was going to do something. 

“Please.” He said softly. “Stay here.”


End file.
